


The All-Seeing Eye

by Blue Rose (HailsRose)



Category: Devil May Cry, DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Gen, Hallucinations, Into The Spardaverse Week, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailsRose/pseuds/Blue%20Rose
Summary: Phineas sees into too many worlds with too many outcomes with only one such world gripped with tragedy to catch his eye. Dante is less inclined to appreciate the blind scholar's jackassery and really wants to shoot him.[OR 6 times Phineas paid Classic!Dante a visit + 1 time he was actually wanted.]
Relationships: Dante & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 39





	1. Pointblank

The sweltering hot summer night rolled across Dante’s skin like a slick sheen of blood. Through the thick haze of lights, a handful of stars and a yellow moon glistened above, their nobility ignored and tarnished. The city’s noises surrounded him in a jammed cacophony of distant rock music, passing gangs of motorcyclists, and the sleazy, drunk raucous of Bobby’s Cellar as hoards of mercenaries chucked back their drinks and locked horns with each other about the latest craze. The sound of laughter and heckling rose through the door and up the stairs Dante had perched himself on while he laced up his boots and breathed in the heat. 

The perfect night for a hunt. 

Dante could pick out the reek of sulfur anywhere, how it burned his nose, a rotten stench carefully accompanied by gore and something earthy, neither pleasant or unpleasant, just there. Any second now they’d be out in the streets, wreaking havoc, screeching and chirruping, brutal, antagonistic, easy prey just begging to be pumped full of lead. A raw, delicious promise that he could filter out some of the rage incessantly smoldering in his gut. It made him hungry. So hungry, so wired, so…

“So bloodthirsty.” 

Dante jackknifed to his feet, his hands flew to the M1911s holstered to his sides, anticipating the opportune moment to draw them. A wavering of shadows materialized in the uproar of Red Grave, revealing to him an old man with half of him in a casket and the rest of his weight leaned onto an ornately crafted cane. His gaunt features poked through leathery, indigo skin; his silk, scholarly robes billowed as a gust of warm wind blew through the alley. One half of his upper head had been replaced by a mechanical contraption that whirred and focused on him, his other glossy eye looked like someone had taken a sprinkling of stardust and scattered it in it. 

“Who the hell are you?” Dante asked. He didn’t pull his guns out, not yet. He didn’t know if this was a threat. 

The man’s elfen ears wiggled back and forth curiously and though Dante already knew, everything about him screamed devil. 

“Tell me, child,” The devil said, brushing Dante’s question aside like it was nothing more than the cigarette ash of the cellar’s most notorious smokers. “What happened that made someone as young as you crave the ichor of demons?” 

“‘S not any of your business,” Dante replied coolly. His trigger finger twitched, beyond the immutable fact that his adversary possessed no humanity, he had no idea why he wanted to shoot him so badly. The devil made his skin crawl like only one other time in his life. Even then...

“I see,” The devil replied. A low, amused chuckle followed and added to the tension. His gaze bore into Dante’s very soul, scouring every bit it could with scorching intent, rifling around, an unwelcome house guest destroying everything they touched with little regard to the owner’s irritation. Dante hated every second of it, hated that the staring felt like something tangible he could pluck out his chest and throw away if only he could just get his hands to  _ move.  _ “You don’t remember, do you?” 

Dante opened his mouth to snap back. 

The devil spoke first with unearthly patience. “How sad.” 

“Who the hell  _ are you? _ ” Dante managed again. He scuffed his boots against the ground much in the manner a restless bull would in a matador’s arena. “What the hell do you want? And you better answer because I won’t ask again.” 

“You are a child of Sparda, yes?” 

“Who?” 

“I understand now.” 

Dante bit his tongue and swallowed his retort, saving his energy to whip out a pistol and point it at the devil’s head. Understand what? What the hell did this demon know that Dante didn’t? What could a blind man see in him that no one else, not even he, could? Red, bubbling anger welled up from his core and climbed up into his throat, settling there like a choking rock refusing to be dislodged. The devil pointed his cane to the depths of the cellar and Dante, unable to rip his gaze from it, followed it down to where the door creaked open a bit. 

“He understands too.” 

Light spilled into the alley as Vergil stepped out. Vergil, whose name burned. Vergil, whose name prodded Dante like a hot poker. Vergil, whose name sounded so familiar, screamed by a woman in the dead of night, smoke amassing from the house consumed by flames, blisters branded onto his hands and feet as the debris crumbled beneath his dead sprint. Vergil, only his name evoking such images. They shared a gaze, a flicker of cognizance and fear, his hand gripping the hilt of his katana as he followed the point of Dante’s gun. 

Before Dante could control his actions, he yanked on the trigger and fired a bullet, the words ripped from his throat. “GET BENT, YOU OLD BASTARD!” 

The open darkness responded with the echo of gunfire. Whoever had been there earlier had taken off, satisfied with having gotten under his skin. If he saw the devil again tonight, he’d unrepentantly shoot him, over and over again, until his mangled, hole-ridden corpse couldn’t even be identified as anything other than a slab of meat. He heard the soft padding of Vergil’s boots marching up the stairs in that weird featherlight way in which he existed, dull edges and a haunted complexion like if someone touched him he’d float away. Hood pulled up over his hair, a bandana or wrappings tied around the bottom half of his face so one could only see his eyes. He peered at Dante with his icy blues as if to ask:  _ ‘Who were you talking to, Tony?’ _

Tony, that’s right. He’s not Dante, he’s Tony. He hasn’t called himself anything other than Tony for fifteen straight years. He massaged the amulet hidden in the folds of his clothes, pressing its sharp points into his skin to bring him back down to earth. His head swam, dizzy and disorienting until he forced himself to inhale a shaky breath and remember the reason he’d even been out here in the first place. He’d been waiting on his hunting partner, the only other person who killed demons and thirsted for the thrill of the fight, and never bothered to ask about his mental health like a normal person. They made a good team.

“You ready to head out?” Tony asked with a grin. 

* * *

Wrong. Everything had gone so wrong, so fast. First, everything had been right, blasting demons away with his guns, reloading without a single hitch in his rhythm, demons falling left and right at the behest of his and Vergil’s mastery and finesse. Tony could still hear the old man whispering behind him at the worst of times, an unabating, intrigued buzz suggesting his unwitting participation in something far bigger than he ever could have imagined. He didn’t care for it, not one bit. The world didn’t seem all that special or worth anything his life didn’t already have. The longer the fight prevailed, the worse the situation got. People took notice and fled the streets, demons started escaping their stranglehold, then the biggest fucking bird Tony had ever seen crashed down in a comet of vermillion lightning and hurled the two devil hunters across the pavement. 

Tony’s ears rang in a horrendously high pitch, blocking out everything except the pounding of his heart against his ribcage. He groaned, pulling himself upward and grasping for his amulet. Panic settled like a deep fizz in his stomach as his hand came up empty. He swept the immediate area and lunged for the gleaming ruby as soon as he saw it, clamping down around it until the pain of holding it made his vision stop spinning and his hearing return. The crackle of fire greeted him first, orange and angry. Vergil greeted him second, hood and mask torn away as he gritted his teeth and glared daggers at the bird. A thunderbolt cracked across Tony’s skull, a delusion of the past flashing against his eyelids. 

Vergil dared spare him his attention, expression contorted into one of vicious wrath, and Tony knew that face. Knew it because it was his own. The same snowy white hair, pale blue eyes, cupid’s bow frown. 

_ Sweet strawberries filled Dante’s mouth, fluffy pink cake coated his hand.  _

The bird screeched something else and pried Vergil away from him. Vergil, whose name burned. Whose name prodded him like a hot poker. Whose name sounded so familiar. 

_ “Vergil, Dante, happy birthday.” _

_ “I want chocolate!”  _

_ “No, I want chocolate!”  _

Rebellion’s grip eased into Dante’s hands, summoned by his will. He knew this sword just as he knew Yamato. 

_ “He understands too.”  _

Just as he knew his twin brother. Just as his twin brother knew him. 

The massive bird swooped down, lunging for Vergil at the same time Dante streaked for the battle, Rebellion raised and ready to cut the mangy creature down. But because the world had it out for him, the bird was too fast and like magic he fucking missed. The bird carried his brother, kicking and screaming and unable to get the Yamato loose from its sheath. Dante swore loudly, shamelessly, pushing out every vulgar expletive he could think of until his imagination sputtered out. He chased that damned hellbird as far as he could, chased the only remnant of his family until his lungs and heart ached and his soul screamed for mercy. 

It didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter. 

Just like it didn’t matter when he’d returned to Red Grave and found his mentor dead with only her sweat and tears imbued into Ebony and Ivory as a distant memory to carry him to the next city. 

* * *

Dante didn’t see that old devil again. At least not for a long time. He did, however, see his brother and the monster he’d become. Vergil had changed since their childhood, no longer a shy, witty, fiery little boy who loved poetry and the lengthy mystery novels their mother would sometimes read aloud. A beast stood in his place, coldhearted and resentful and angry unlike anyone else Dante had met. Angry in a way that vindicated Dante’s bloodlust and spurred their countless fights. Red and blue clashing, nonstop, baiting each other again and again. 

In spite of that, he always heard the old devil’s words ringing around.  _ Vergil understands too. _ Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Dante didn’t plan on asking anytime soon. As a bitter torrent of rain subsumed him and blood gushed from the wound inflicted by Rebellion pinning him to the top of Temen-Ni-Gru, he could summon forth the only reply that made sense. Something inhuman crackled in his soul.

“Get bent, you bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:  
> 1) I'm kinda playing it safe with Spardaverse this year since I would prefer to have more of my AUs published before I delve super deep into crossing them over. ~~All I'm really doing is snatching Phineas from DmC and having him interact with classic Dante because Phineas was an interesting concept and I'm still salty he didn't get used to his full potential.~~ That being said, I am definitely going to get a bit crazier next year. 
> 
> 2) I cannot ever put into words how much I love writing asshole-ish teenage Sparda twins and now, I want more.


	2. Another's Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante comes home from a job after being cursed to high hell. Phineas waxes poetically about tragedies and leaves him to face an alternate hell for a short while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt here is cursed/swap but like...... I took a lot of liberties with this chapter, lmao.

**April 13th, 1998**

**Six Months Post Temen-Ni-Gru**

**\---**

Dante suppressed a groan as Devil May Cry welcomed him home, its creaky doors scraping out a wordless ‘welcome back.’ He leaned against the wall and kicked his shoes off, every bone in his body ached and through his veins rushed frigidity. A wave of nausea slammed into him, his entire front prickled unpleasantly like a thousand pins and needles were stuck in his skin. He leaned over and steadied his breathing, hands gripping his knees as he sluggardly reined control of himself in. With a breathy laugh, he staggered to the stairs and dragged himself up to his second-floor apartment to rifle through all of his clutter for something to cure the poison. 

This mission did not go as planned. But then, things hardly did these days. The client paid Dante a hefty sum if he could deliver an ancient and frankly dangerous artifact into their hands. When he retrieved the artifact, the damned thing greeted him with a shrill laugh and a nightmarish vision, then proceeded to curse him to hell and back and force him to take a dead heavy nap on the temple floor. When he’d woken up, it seemed he’d contracted a whole curse and that it couldn’t be spread onto anyone else (fabulous, fuck his life). 

No one else could be hurt from it, thank deity. He did a lightning-quick background check into the client and found nothing to be concerned about, no past association with demons, no overt interest in the occult, no pentagrams or summon circles or anything of the generally iffy sort hidden beneath paintings, banners, rugs, or floorboards. Just a quirky collector who wanted something unique. 

Of course, he dispatched Lady as soon as he had the chance to anyway, just a Plan B to make sure nothing came for his client in the night. He’d had to promise her some of his pay but it’d be worth it to make sure of the collector’s safety. 

Dante shoved both of his hands deep into a cupboard, looking for the drawstring pouch where he kept all of his alchemic stars. He hardly needed these and he hated paying for them from the  _ Watcher of Time _ , he didn’t keep a bank account full of crystallized demon blood and he wasn’t rich. But he’d rather use them now to get it over with than see if his demonic healing would kick in and save him in his sorry state. He closed a hand around a drawstring pouch and wrenched it out of the cupboard, bringing half of its contents with him in a terrific clatter that pounded against his head. 

As he dumped the contents of the bag out on the table, the gems twinkling in the lowlight of his cramped space, he rasped out a swear. 

“Shit, where is it?” 

He had one, he knew he did. Bothering with Holy Stars in the short run was a pointless endeavor, he’d been stabbed, jabbed, and smacked around repeatedly over the years, a good chunk of the time his opponents had a venomous weapon to wield and made a point of injecting something lethal into his blood. An ice bath maintained the effort of soothing his bloodier wounds but today he didn’t have the patience to lug himself into the bathroom and the deep-set of throbbing in his muscles demanded his attention with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. Unnecessary to mention: his healing lied latent, being unbelievably lazy. Finally, he found the dull blue glow of the Holy Star. A breath escaped him as he lifted it to his mouth, anticipating the glassy crunch and explosion of raspberries and rum across his tastebuds- 

“How peculiar,” A familiar voice broke the silence. 

Dante hissed out a swear as the Holy Star tumbled from his fingers, a silvery jingle indicated its landing somewhere in the shop as he turned a scowl on his visitor. He remembered this asshole from the alleyway, he possessed a face and demeanor hard to forget, just seeing the bastard’s blurry outline reignited fury old enough to smoke cigarettes and gamble. He dropped into a crouch, unwinding his trigger out until he could detect the static power the healing star emanated. He dipped underneath the table, slapping a hand down and accidentally pitching it across the floor.

“You’re not quite what I expected, Son of Sparda,” The devil continued. 

“I get that a lot,” Dante replied then very elegantly knocked his head against the table and jostled it. He leveled a scowl at the devil as he crawled out and debated whether or not shooting him with Ebony and Ivory would be socially acceptable, even in the privacy of his own house. With a deriding, mimicking tone, he shot back. “It’s Dante, by the way. May I get  _ your name _ , you condescending prick?” 

“Phineas.” 

Dante didn’t know whether that tempered him or lit more of his fuses, either way the only thing he cared about was that wretched Holy Star. He willed his sense of balance to return and his sight to clear through sheer spite alone, then dove for the remedy with an undignified amount of vehemence. Somewhere in the back of his head, a little voice murmured reproaches about how he should have some shame and put more effort into looking competent. Another voice, louder and irritated, snapped at the little one to shut the fuck up. He’d had a long day and he didn’t owe this bastard— _ Phineas _ —a single solitary ounce of decency. 

“What do you want, Phineas?” Dante asked as soon as he secured the star. 

“Just to see who you are,” Phineas said. His mechanical eye went on a gear-like spiel of clicking and readjusting, reading Dante like a book once more. He went silent for a long while, a mute observer to his subject’s admittedly pathetic attempt to eat what could be classified as a piece of candy. “You know, the world is a strange place. It has many stories to tell…” 

_ ‘Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,’  _ Dante thought miserably.  _ ‘He’s one of those philosophic snobs, isn’t he?’  _

He’d dealt with his fair share of them before. 

“Comedies, musicals, historicals,” He paused, eyeing Dante with a knowing aura subsuming him. “Tragedies.” That word alone sent a hollow pang of sadness ricocheting through Dante. He’d been so preoccupied with healing himself, he’d managed to forget why his life sucked so much and why he felt so much grief. It had been six months since the tower, six months since he’d lost his brother and subsequently honored the good part of his memory with the shop’s naming. He drowned his sorrows and tears in cheap alcohol for a long time, he and Lady drank his twentieth birthday away like the world had ended and they were about to have their organs harvested by the black market. For a whole night, he’d managed to annihilate his brain and the brutal loneliness of not having his brother by his side. 

After a moment, Phineas carried on. “Tragedies, those are the fun ones. They’re defined by the downfall of the main character. Usually caused because the aforementioned character is the wrong hero archetype.” 

“What the hell are you babbling on about?” Dante asked. He had been a second away from popping the Holy Star into his mouth when he’d gotten distracted by the nonsensical drivel.

“Had you been in a crueler world, do you think you would have had better luck?” 

Before Dante could fling out a retort, the walls and floor rippled around him. He fell, wind and life and death whipping past him until he landed on a new patch of a dystopian world bathed in the hellish red glow of the Underworld. The glass on a shattered window dangled precariously before falling to the pavement below, stories stretched out before him as a monstrous creature slammed a limb into a neighboring building, brokenly, wrathfully booming out laments for its lack of foresight and the presence of two sons. Or something like that, Dante honestly couldn’t be sure, all his senses were climbing sky stars up the wazoo and he couldn’t be bothered to focus on any one detail. The curse still crept through him, vice grip guarding a steady, emetic churning that clung to him with a vengeance, alerting him to the fact that nothing in his immediate vicinity could be trusted in the slightest. 

“Dante.” 

He whirled as his name left the mouth of a man he’d never seen. Or perhaps he had. White hair, dressed in shades of blue, a slender katana sheathed at his side. Pure, primeval instinct drove Dante’s hand to Ivory and put a bullet in the man’s skull. The world he’d witnessed melted away, viscous akin to a cherry popsicle in the summer sun. The familiar confines of his shop came into view as one white-knuckled fist curled around Ivory and the other tightened on the Holy Star. Phineas had gone but his voice lingered, haunting him. 

_ ‘The wrong hero.’ _

Dante tasted blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you heathens know that I had to sit through the DmC Dante v Mundus fight to get some wording and dialogue for this fic. I can feel my soul deteriorating in my chest cavity.


	3. Pyrrhic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years later, Dante takes his victory against Nelo Angelo on Mallet Island and suffers for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not start crying while writing this, I did naht.

Adrenaline shrieked like a missile in Dante’s veins as he levered the Rebellion against Nelo Angelo’s greatsword, alarm bells howling as he met blank red eyes with horrified fury. It’s Vergil. Of course, it’s Vergil, how could it possibly be anyone else? No one had ever given him the thrill of an evenly matched fight, stirred up his inner devil, or taunted him back the same way his brother did. A decade’s worth of misery and violence had shunted the instincts connected only to Vergil to the furthest reaches of his memory and let them fade into a dull thud. He doubted that even if he had wanted to grasp for those straws he wouldn’t have been able to, not until now when he was locked in battle with his brother once more and reliving every soul-sucking moment of every battle they’ve fought against each other. 

Dante won. 

It didn’t always be that way and in some mourning, broken way he wishes he didn’t. He wishes Vergil would have won and taken his victory straight to Mundus. At least, then, they’d both be alive and Dante wouldn’t have been stranded in the middle of the ocean on a run-down plane, dead out of gas with his only company the bewitching blonde at his side. Trish was kind enough to cause a scene and get someone at Capulet Port two miles away to pay attention to them and send out a rescue raft. The burly man who helped Trish aboard gave Dante a sideways look and he had a sinking feeling it was because of the desperate, on-the-brink-of-crying countenance he had about himself. 

The motorcycle ride back to Capulet passed in a blur of wind stinging his cheeks and Trish clutching his waist to stay on board. He was grateful for any distraction to keep him on the high of winning, even if it didn’t push Vergil from his brain. He handed the motorcycle off to her as soon as it screeched to a stop outside of Devil May Cry and told her to go explore the human world, get used to the sights and smells, gorge herself on gourmet pizza,  _ live like a human.  _ He left the spare bedroom open for her convenience and with a nod, she took off. Dante existed in the ambiance of the city for as long as possible, watching the motorcycle turn around a corner and out of sight, then he stomped inside, yanked open his alcohol cabinet, and tipped down the first bottle in one fell swoop.

He welcomed the wave of adrift, floaty drunkenness that washed over him and before he knew it, he found himself nursing a bottle of reichwein (his third drink) at his desk, Ebony and Ivory lying delicately on the mahogany surface, his gloves tucked away so as to remain untouched by the stain of gun solvent. He probably shouldn’t be working with firearms when submerged so deeply in a haze of alcohol but he sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to care. He’d probably need them out anyway, his senses had gone into overdrive a little over an hour ago… 

“Phineas, I know you’re here, you condescending douchebag!” Dante finally said, losing control of his patience. “Come out and wax philosophically about my misery or whatever the hell it is you want to do.”

“You merely assume that is my wish,” Phineas said. He strode through the west wall like a ghost and waved his cane in Dante’s direction, just as dramatic as ever. “Did you ever think that maybe I just want to visit you.” 

Dante scoffed. A likely story. Phineas had popped in seldom in the past decade, choosing moments where his host was less likely to shoot him than on another occasion. Dante had both guns out more than he would admit in the event the scholar overstayed his welcome, a bullet through a wall had ended more of their interactions than not. 

“Whatever, just start on your tangent,” Dante replied, raising a bottle of the mediocre brand name beer to his lips. “Hopefully I’ll be drunk enough to forget this entire encounter.” 

When it became obvious Dante had completely lost his fire, Phineas resigned himself and did as told, and the words lulled him into a soft state of half-asleep, half-awake. He tipped back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk, listening half-heartedly through the fizzing static in his ears, unable to make out but the occasional word. Things like “Underworld,” “outcomes,” and the like, only pausing when “tragedy” managed to sneak past his filters. Dante didn’t say anything but the edges of his vision started to go black and a heavy cinderblock started weighing his soul down deeper into his body where he could ignore its pained wailing for the brother he just killed. Ten years ago Phineas had mentioned something similar, defined tragedies as containing the wrong hero. 

What a sore spot. Laggardly, Dante wondered what difference it would have made had he not been born a Son of Sparda or Vergil’s brother. Had he been someone else, would Mundus even care for his prowess as a devil hunter? Had a completely different person owned his life, would Vergil have survived? Would he be curled up on the couch, free of his power draining constraints, lines of corruption scouring his body, breathing heavily, in agony but unequivocally, perfectly alive? 

Dante let out a moan of displeasure and collapsed forward onto his desk. He was going to have a raging headache tomorrow if he started on another bottle but he reached for it nonetheless. As he continued on his drunken, downward spiral, a thought came to him consisting of youthful memories and the sunshiney laughter of children as they dashed through the forest surrounding Redgrave Manor. 

“You know, when we were little,” Dante muttered out before he could stop himself. “Vergil used to keep me out of trouble.” 

He snorted upon remembering that Vergil now seemed to get into more trouble than to put it in a grave and bury it before their mother could seek them out. Quiet, cunning, too calculative for his age but loved fiercely by Dante and Eva all the same. A long time ago, Vergil would be the one pinning Dante to the ground and scolding him for being reckless, and if Dante hadn’t been the wrong hero, maybe the same could have been said for Vergil today. 

* * *

_ Dante wept.  _

_ Scrapes and cuts and bruises of every kind decorated his body in a gory piece of artwork and he had no idea where home was. He couldn’t find his family, lost out in the wilderness, cold and hungry, and to top all of it off, he’d lost his scarf in the tree he’d just fallen out of. He’d wanted to see if he could find home that way and only now realized how poor his judgment had been. The gravity of the situation weighed on the child out the stark orange and pink of the sky and all he could do was shed tears.  _

_ He would die out here. Alone and sad and scared because he’d disobeyed their mother, strayed from the forest path he had been told to stay on. He wanted to explore, wanted to chase adventure like in the stories Vergil would sometimes read to him about that famous archeologist and his daring escapes, clever puzzle-solving, how he beat up the bad guys without so much as batting an eyelash.  _

_ But this adventure wasn’t as fun as he thought it’d be. He didn’t get to enter a cool crypt or light a torch in a long, dark cave or anything like that. He didn’t get to be a crusader of awesomeness, all he got to be was a bad, little boy who’d make a horrible mistake and would never get to see his mother again. He’d never get to taste her delicious, hot meals or snuggle up against her, she’d never wrap him up in her shawl and tickle his belly or comb her fingers through his hair while whispering their lullaby to him.  _

_ He cried harder, burying his face in hands as tears streamed down his hands and arms, stinging his wounds. How could he be so foolish- _

_ “Dante!”  _

_ Dante’s head shot up just as Vergil plowed into the clearing, nearly tripping over his own boots in all his relief. A beat passed and Vergil slammed into him, clinging tight to his brother as Dante sobbed into his shoulder, this time happy beyond vocalizing to see a familiar face. Vergil pulled back far too soon and used the opportunity to cup Dante’s cheeks and examine his wounds.  _

_ “Are you okay?”  _

_ “Mmhm,” Dante sniffled, scrubbing at his eyes with a closed fist, the other gripping the hem of his shirt.  _

_ Vergil still had the look of concern on his face but as he peered at the cut on Dante’s hand as it sealed up, he sighed easily.  _

_ “Then there’s no need to cry anymore, I’m here.” Vergil swiftly pulled Dante into another brief hug, breathing heavily and slowly, and waiting on his brother to match his pace so he didn’t pass out from hyperventilation. “Where’s your scarf?”  _

_ Dante pointed up at the tree where the bright red fabric got caught on a branch, swaying in the breeze. Without even a word of protest, Vergil rolled up his sleeves and grabbed the first branch, hoisting himself up. Lithe and swift like a squirrel, Dante marveled as his brother effortlessly climbed from limb to limb, no sign of hesitance or exertion in his tiny frame, until finally, with a delicacy he didn’t have before, he slid the scarf free of its trap and held it up, letting out a triumphant laugh. _

_ “Jackpot!” _

_ A huge grin shined on his face as Vergil waved the scarf around like a victory flag.  _

_ Dante’s big brother was  _ **_so cool!_ **

_ Vergil landed deftly on the forest floor and strode over to Dante, an air of confidence surrounded him as he wrapped the scarf around his brother’s neck, wreathing him in comfort and the smell of their house. Something occurred to Dante just then. _

_ “How are we gonna get home?” _

_ An easy smile crossed Vergil’s features as he slipped his hand into Dante’s. “Don’t worry, I know the way.” _

_ They started back toward the forest path, hand in hand, and Dante believed his brother every step of the way with his frank, wholehearted, unchallenged soul. Vergil was smart, always reading, deeply immersed in knowledge, he knew the answers to all of mom’s test questions and sometimes, he could even say them in a different language than Dante understood. It only made sense that he knew where to go. Vergil was always right.  _

_ As Vergil led the way, he spoke up, diminishing both their cheery smiles. _

_ “Do you remember what dad used to say?” His voice fell into a somber tone.  _

_ Dante screwed up his face, thinking hard. Dad said a lot of things before he left, warnings, advice, rhymes and riddles. He remembered how seconds ago, he’d been bawling when Vergil found him and said- _

_ “ **‘It’s okay to cry?’** ” _

_ “No,” Vergil replied sharply then went back on his words. “Well, yes, that too.” After all, he wouldn’t have located his dear, sweet brother if he hadn’t been crying. “But the other thing. That we have to be strong and look after mom while he’s gone.” _

_ Dante’s mouth made an ‘o’ shape. “Yeah, I remember. I can be strong, I can be  _ **_really_ ** _ strong!” _

_ Vergil’s expression softened at that. He clutched Dante’s hand tighter. “ _ **_We_ ** _ can be strong.” He reaffirmed. “So, no more tears when everything is alright, you understand?” _

_ “Yep!”  _

_ And the two of them went on their way.  _

* * *

Phineas hadn’t been sure what to make of Dante, when he first met him and right now. He had fire, albeit an extremely different fire that he had no experience with, unlike the careening, roaring mix of heaven and hell merged together that the Nephilim carried with them wherever they went in their maundering, dream-like movements. Unabashed and certain of everything they wanted, regardless of whether or not there was a fight to participate in. He tapped tentatively on his cane, eyeing Dante as he slumbered, slouched over his desk, one hand still loosely wrapped around his beer. He focused his gaze inward, barely catching the crystalline tear that trickled down Dante’s face.

What a strange man this one made.

“Be strong,” Dante murmured in his sleep.


	4. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucia watches over Devil May Cry and naturally worries over him when he comes back. Dante is not used to such kindness and he really doesn't need Phineas to be smart about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAAAAH WE GOT A LUCIA CHAPTER BABIEEEEEEEEEE!!!! I love her more than strictly necessary but GDI, she deserves to be in future games. 
> 
> Also, the thing about the scarf this chapter might be a bit confusing, just stick with it, it's part of my own personal headcanons thing and is... not really canon-compliant but close enough. I wanted something small to work with them and a way to mirror last chapter's flashback between Dante and Vergil.

Dante had seen the sunrise exactly three times in his life. Once when Temen-Ni-Gru had fallen into rubble, twice when he’d went on a massive bender in the middle of the afternoon, in the wake of which he had to peel himself, Lady, and Trish off the floor at six o’clock in the morning almost fourteen hours later, and third just as he returned from hell. 

He brought his motorcycle to a fluid stop on the edge of the highway and dismounted, nearly throwing himself against the cement barrier separating him from the straight drop down into the valley. He combed a gloved hand straight through his hair, with the other he clutched the wool scarf enfolding his neck, misty-eyed as the vibrant sky ignited in a volley of colors: burnished gold, striking magenta, and orange bleeding between them, the sun a blinding white pearl peeking over the mountain top. He inhaled deeply, absorbing every ounce of fresh, overworld air he could get. After so long of wandering the Nine Circles, killing demons and fruitlessly searching for a way out, he was glad to have finally stumbled headfirst through a portal to find a way home. 

How long had he been gone? Lady and Trish were going to kill him. 

He slumped against the barrier, clasping his hands as he thought of all the people he’d left behind in order to close the Hellgate. He doubted any of them were up and about gazing at the sunrise like he was, devil hunters may have had messy sleep schedules but late, black nights and dark skies were their best friends. The less light, the better. It’s when demons came out to play and hunters could move around undetected, when Capulet threw the best parties with the most vehemence and noise and always sent Dante home a little tipsy and with a mild case of tinnitus that healed over by the next afternoon. Eventually, the sun had fully risen and the sky turned a beautiful blue, so he returned to his motorcycle and started down the highway leading into Capulet. 

He missed his city and all the ways it refused to change, of the way it howled around him as he sped through the streets and made a sharp turn on Devil May Cry’s block. The motorcycle hadn’t even come to a complete stop before Dante hopped off of it and nearly lurched up the stairs, only then realizing just how worn hell and days of straight fighting had left him. He entered into the shop, hinges creaking, and an anticipated dart with bright feathers impaled the doorframe inches away from his face. He didn’t even startle, he’d sensed Lucia’s presence before his boots touched the asphalt and a warm fluttering started in his abdomen upon realizing she’d kept his shop company. 

“State your business,” Lucia commanded. She held her cutlass out, sharp edge brandished directly at him. 

Dante leaned against the frame, a surprised, hoarse chuckle escaping his throat. He hadn’t expected that, as appreciated as the suspicion was. 

“I must be in worse shape I thought,” Dante muttered. Covered in a thick layer of grime and dirt and blood, having not seen a shower in what must have been weeks, he didn’t feel as beat as he probably looked, regardless of some of the hemorrhaging wounds he haphazardly bound his side with. He grimaced as the gash in his side drummed as if to remind him where his attention needed to be but when he looked up, all that concerned his personal state dissolved. A flicker of recognition passed over Lucia's face and her scowl became a blinding, bright smile. 

“Dante?” She asked hopefully. The fluttering in his abdomen increased as she steadily approached him, her light setting his darkness ablaze and dispersing it with that simple action. “Is that you?” 

Her melodic, accented voice sounded so soft and broken as if dreading the punchline to a cruel joke, waiting to be told that the man who’d aided her in saving Vie De Marli from Arius and Argosax, with his cool, unshakable composure and surreptitious generosity, hadn’t genuinely returned. The way she spoke his name accompanied by a plea that her wish had come true made all of his insides become a gooey, sweet mess. Only then did Dante realize how deep this dive had been. Matier was the meddling type, right? She would kill him.

“Yeah, it’s me,” He answered, fighting to keep from reeling as he met her in the center of the shop floor. Tears burned the corners of her eyes as she flung herself into the arms Dante braced to catch her and sunk into all of her regrets and despair with only him to keep her afloat. 

“It should have been me,” She whispered. 

Dante’s gut seized at that and he tightened his hold on her.

“No,” He returned tightly, praying the fear he felt couldn't be heard in his voice. “No, you would have died.” 

He had been more than glad to take the responsibility of humanity’s savior upon him if it meant that someone like Lucia, who had just discovered her own mortality and desire to protect her loved ones could live and truly experience her life without her heart holding her back. He couldn’t lose another one to the bowels of hell, especially not Lucia who had reignited his reason for fighting. She gave him something to come back for. He remembered that conversation as the felt of her scarf rubbed against his collarbone, how tender and slow her movements had been when she’d given it to him before he heroically dashed off to save the world. 

_ “To keep you warm and to make sure you come back. You have to return it to me.” _

But deity, she was a bleeding heart. He pulled at the fabric and gingerly began removing it, a pang of guilt flitting through when he saw how much he’d ruined it while traversing the Underworld. He hoped her anger wouldn’t be untamable once the weight of its destruction registered properly. 

“Your scarf,” He said, holding the fabric out to her. “I tried to protect it as much as possible but…”

He trailed off, unsure of how to finish the apology. She delicately smoothed her thumbs over the fabric, testing every knot and lump of filth ingrained into it. The shattered exhale emptying from her lungs put a crack in Dante’s heart, it only worsened when she stared up at him with glassy, wet eyes then leaned her forehead against his chest as a sniffle that sounded suspiciously like a choked back sob filled the room. 

“I’m glad you’re okay.” 

Dante paused then extricated himself from Lucia’s grasp as quickly as possible, refusing to let any deeper meaning to her worry seep in. She’s an acquaintance now, possibly a business partner, and he shouldn’t get too ahead of himself. Speaking of which, he thought, turning to the phone as it hollered for his attention. He reached it in three quick strides. 

“Devil May Cry.” 

Faintly, his awareness yanked at him and warned him that Lucia had an adoring, goggling look on her face like she believed he was the greatest thing in the world, and while he didn’t necessarily disagree—and he didn’t agree either—he didn’t need her to be admiring him in a such a way. The kind of unwavering, resolute faith she clearly wanted to express in him would come back to bite and possibly kill her, arm’s length suddenly became the standard at which he’d have to hold her. For now, anyway. The client on the phone gave him the password and as Dante swore he would hunt every single demon, he had to head their way and deal with the issue, even if they’re of the tiniest, most powerless sort. 

As he finished the call, he noted Lucia had schooled herself into a more professional posture, possibly to hide her reverence, and Dante didn’t know whether he liked that more or less. He hated when his emotions turned into a tangle more complicated than they needed to be, he sure as hell didn’t want to waste time parsing through them. 

“I have a job,” He said, giving her a gentle smile. “They gave me the password so I should probably go take care of it.” 

Twenty seconds later had Lucia dragging him up to his apartment and forcing him to sit down while she tended to his wounds. That became another thing about Lucia Dante had to file away for future reference because not even Trish or Patty did this on a good day and he had no idea how to get around it. He certainly didn’t know how to deal with people who fussed over him or made a scene when his accelerated healing didn’t kick in right away. Surely, Lucia saw he’d be just fine, she had a similar devil form and matter of skin that knitted itself back together as long as it had time, it also liked to slip into a state of overworked every once and awhile. 

“You’re not going anywhere until you’re healed up,” She scolded before he could protest. “While I’m sure your devil form can handle it, you occasionally need a moment of reprieve, otherwise it’ll give up on you, especially when you need it most.” 

Why did he suspect those words had roots in experience? 

The exact moment she finished dabbing disinfectant that Dante didn’t need onto the only reddened slash on his side, she pulled him up by the shoulders and shoved him toward the bathroom. 

“Take a shower,” She said, this time shyer. “It’ll help.”

“Pretty sure I’m fine.” 

“Do you want to get in trouble with your client?” 

“Don’t think they’ll care.” 

She took a stabilizing breath, hands pressed together as she processed his bout of ridiculousness.  _ “Take a shower.”  _

Then she marched past him and went downstairs, fiery red hair and light vanishing with her. He mumbled some harsh invectives under his breath that he knew were completely unmerited because if Lady ever did this to him, he’d think something had possessed her and promptly try to exorcise it. A swarm of butterflies flapped about angrily in his insides, reminding him violently that Lucia wasn’t Trish or Patty or Lady and that just because she didn’t take his bullshit, didn’t mean she wasn’t of the fluffier, kinder type of people in the world that made a soothing coating for his weary soul. It had been a long time since anyone had cared about him unconditionally, not since Red Grave-

And that thought could die a painful death, thank you very much. Why did his brain have to be like this, why did he have to go back to living with the ghosts of his mother and Nell and Grue and  _ Vergil  _ haunting him the moment his kill instinct flipped off? He lumbered to the bathroom, momentarily peered inside and stretched his trigger out for a brief second to see if something or  _ someone,  _ in particular, would choose to make themselves known. Satisfied he could be left in privacy to clean himself up for a bit, he stripped free of his overshirt and trousers. He got as far as his boxers when Phineas finally decided to be an ass. 

“Well, she’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” 

Dante yelped and ceremoniously, gloriously slammed backwards into the tub, landing on his ass and folding in half like a lawn chair. Compared to his earlier nurse session with Lucia, this pain had nothing but a muted feeling. He glared razor-sharp daggers at Phineas as he leaned up against the counter, spinning his cane around with a bit of dramatic flair. Something made Dante hesitate in his comeback, he didn’t know what but Phineas seemed… different. He’d changed. Not in a way that mattered, probably but it still made Dante cock his head like a lost puppy. 

The stretched smile on Phineas’s lips appeared and then Dante decided he’d rather not inquire and just punch him in the face. Why the hell did he leave Ebony and Ivory out in the living room? 

“Glad to see you’ve got your fire back, old friend.” 

Dante strangled the need to snap back and instead he tilted his head back and, for no discernible, identifiable reason, allowed himself to dissolve into loud, unrestrained laughter. Laughter like the world didn’t have a vice grip on him anymore, like his mother and brother and everyone else he’d failed lingered behind him, like the darkness that had consumed for so long had finally been taken away, even if Phineas sure as hell wasn’t responsible. His city hadn’t changed at all, neither had he, all the stress from his life still weighed heavily on his shoulders. Fuck, why was he laughing so hard? Had he finally lost his mind? 

“Dante!” Lucia called him from downstairs. “Are you okay?” 

He shouted out a promise that he was fine without missing a hitch and then…

_ Oh.  _

_ Okay then.  _

So there went arm’s length not even an hour after he made the plan. Lady once said his life had all the attributes of a cartoonishly horrendous trainwreck and now he understood the truthness of the statement. Urgh, damn, he really needed to get to work. But not before he finished one last thing. He looked Phineas dead in the eye. 

“I hate you.” 

“I know.” 


	5. Faith Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante celebrates the glory of having a nephew, Phineas is rightly appalled by both that and his fashion sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is oh so cleverly named after Dave Not Dave's Cold Blood because the line "I'm a faith healer" fits Dante's role in the fourth game in a bit of an ironic way. That being said, I'm sorry for all the Greek mythology references in this chapter but not really because Phineas is an in-game reference to the seer and King of Thrace so I gotta milk that a little bit lol.

Phineas, despite his numerous indentures under kings, queens, and other dubious monarchs, had never been a servant to anyone’s whims. He’d forged away in Hephaestus’ blistering foundry, swept up and down shelves full of scrolls, maps, and artifacts in Athena’s library, served under Proteus, Rhiannon. Selena, the maiden of the moon with her pearly white simper, once referred to him as a loyal hunting dog capable only of begging at his master’s table for scraps. He’d responded in an equally mischievous and dangerous verve that she was just as blind as said masters. The only thing he truly served was knowledge. It used him as a lightning rod, he made himself a beacon to attract instances in which he could learn, a tactic that had driven multiple battle strategists to try to take his head off. He craved and consumed it voraciously, willing to let it goad him into near death. 

A slave to his own curiosity. 

Perhaps that’s why he found himself wandering around the  _ Devil May Cry  _ so often and why, on one chilly Autumn day, he gingerly took the lovely late Eva’s portrait into his hands and admired her beauty. Completely human, in this world, and arguably the strongest being in existence if she could capture the attention of Sparda with such fervor. Her radiance shined through the age and wear, undiminished through the years. In a strange, honest way, he wished he’d known Eva and Sparda before their untimely demise, maybe then he’d understand Dante’s motivations a little better. 

Speaking of the devil himself…

_ Devil May Cry’s  _ doors slammed open, carried by Dante and all his uncharacteristic manic energy. 

“Phineas!” Dante shouted. “I thought you might be here.” 

Phineas placed the portrait back on Dante’s desk before he could be scolded, made a show of tugging on his robe’s sleeves, and turned to greet his friend, only to be met with a sight he couldn’t have imagined in his wildest dreams or nightmares.

_ “What in the nine circles of hell are you wearing, my friend?”  _ Phineas managed out after he’d recovered from the shock. 

Dante pouted—at least Phineas thought it to be a pout. Knowing Dante, he’d claim it was a scowl or something much less childish. He thundered across the floor in his blindingly red cowboy boots that might make Phineas’ mechanical eye shut down from the stress (there’s a three-foot stack of technicalities upon technicalities to his blindness. The mechanical eye helps him see but not in the traditional sense and honestly, Phineas has explained it to so many people so many different times that he’d rather stop digressing from the point.) The point is, Dante’s outfit is an atrocity. 

It’s nothing like the usual gothic styles Dante favored in the past, with its western charms and traditional stitching, the ridiculously massive demonic emblem that made up the buckle on one of his many belts and straps and an equal amount of zippers, hard to keep track of them all. 

“It’s fashion,” Dante muttered. The lock on the alcohol cabinet clicked and the doors swung open, revealing a prized, kaleidoscopic collection of intoxicants capable of putting Dionysus to shame. He thoughtfully gathered two crystalline glasses and a bottle of liquid gold then sipped directly from it, something that would get his ass kicked by one of his unruly business partners later if they ever found out. 

“Chaps?” Phineas had to fight to keep the incredulous tone out of his voice and still marvelously failed. 

“It’s the in style,” Dante retorted, going about to gather ice from the freezer to fill the glasses, a melodic clinking filled the air as he placed them on his desk. “According to Trish, anyway.” 

Phineas almost replied that Trish was a motorcycle junkie who wore too much leather for her own good but the devil seemed to read his mind as she briefly popped through the shop and headed upstairs. 

“Don’t diss the chaps, Phineas!” She snapped, pointing accusingly at him, though she had a bright smile on her face. She made a gesture to save the second glass of whiskey for her, which Dante had probably been planning on as soon as he got the glasses out, and disappeared up to the apartment. Phineas rolled his eyes, this Mundus made even less sense to him than the one in the world he’d crawled from. Then again, he’d never met this particular Demon King, and Phineas would prefer to keep it that way. He didn’t spend millennia in Barbas’ penitentiary just to repeat it. 

At that point, he noted just how cheerful and upbeat everyone behaved, particularly the pleased smirk Dante hid behind his glass and how Trish didn’t seem up for their usual banter. Things were too wry for this to be a routine day.  _ Something good had happened.  _

“What has all of you in such a good mood?” Phineas finally asked. 

Dante grinned like he’d been waiting an eternity for Phineas to pose the question, either because he genuinely believed Phineas was omnipotent and could figure it out even if Dante didn’t tell him or perhaps this kind of thing had immense worth and needed to be shared regardless of the adamancy that two-thirds of  _ Devil May Cry  _ loathed his guts. (Lady could act civilized and appreciated having someone else around who’d perfected the ‘are you serious?’ look usually saved for Dante. Heck, Phineas had the expression right now.) 

“Phineas, you’re not gonna believe this.” 

“Try me.” 

“I have a nephew.” 

If Phineas had a drink, he would have spat it out in shock. 

“What the-” 

“Yeah, I know,” Dante cut him off looking awfully smug about the surprise. And Phineas wondered why he stayed, this was top drama, perfect entertainment. “I thought the same. Could hardly believe it but there’s no way he’s anyone else’s kid. Not even mine.” 

Phineas said something akin to a curse which made Dante burst out into raucous, ignoble laughter. A swell of demonic power rose through Dante’s being, overpowering like gun oil and whiskey and malt drowned out by something vaguely hellish and deafening and  _ terrifying _ . The lightbulbs in the shop flickered and buzzed, threatening to shatter under the sudden pressure inadvertently being put onto them. The activity died at the same time his laughter did, suddenly and returning to normal like it had never been affected in the first place and no sign subsisted to prove otherwise. 

“I can hardly believe it,” Dante murmured, finishing his glass. 

And something  _ clicked  _ in Phineas’s head. Gears whirred to a stuttering halt as his question to what fueled Dante’s fire is, at last, answered. His motivation, his strength, all stemming from one thing. No dramatics, no violence or blood or rage, just something simple and candid and drawing the epiphany from him with the least conflict possible and truthfully Phineas didn’t know what to make of it. A rare occurrence, he knew what to make of everything most days. 

Even better, Phineas had a strong, sneaking suspicion this was the strongest Dante had ever been in his life. 


	6. Jackpot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante prepares for the job V gave him, delivers his deed to Morrison, and gives his goodbyes to Phineas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand the mood went down again. Lol I'm good at brief respites, aren't I?

For all of Dante’s panache and flair, it’d be a lie to say he didn’t pay attention when things got serious, especially where his family had planted their roots became concerned. V didn’t strike him as the type to play games, wordplay and poetry aside, and Dante didn’t want to believe him when he spoke about his reason for fighting. He’d watched the news with a close eye anyway, anticipating the evidence that his brother lived and stood on the cusp of committing crimes against humanity once more. Much to his mix of chagrin, exhaustion, and those annoying, tiny bits of relief and joy, a massive tree from the depths of hell ruptured in the center of Red Grave City, right back where it all began. 

How fucking ironic. 

“You’re unusually quiet today, Dante,” Morrison said, watching as his best hunter holstered Ebony and Ivory. He’d a faint idea of what went on inside of Dante’s head and an even fainter idea that Eva and Vergil occupied most of it, particularly on his bad days. “There something on your mind?”

Dante hummed, putting out a facade of nonchalance and the hardly noticeable upward pull of his lips as if amused. He carefully brought Rebellion around and attached it to the skull magnet on the center of his back. “Nah, not really. Nothing important anyway.” 

Then, as if to refute his entire statement, he slipped his hand into his pocket and gingerly pulled out an envelope to give to the broker. Morrison took the sleeve and waved it around, testing the weight and thickness. Too light to be cold hard cash, unlikely to be a check since Dante used them even less than he used credit cards (see: not at all), and every single important document he owned he kept in a black 1910 carbondale safe inaccessible to anyone except himself. Despite Dante’s unfaltering trust in his companions and business partners, not even Lady or Trish knew where to locate the damned thing or how to get into it, which might say a bit about how that trust extended to his life but not so much to cash. Then again, Trish and Lady didn’t exactly spout off to Dante where they kept their valuables, so the feeling had mutual strings. After being unable to figure out what the envelope contained, Morrison shot Dante his confusion. 

“Alright, I’ll bite,” He said. “What’s this?”

“The deed to Devil May Cry.” 

Morrison blanched and- “The  _ what?!  _ Dante you’re not serious!” 

“Check if you don’t believe me.”

He did and as he held the affirming document in his hand, he nearly felt sick because of the implications. Dante didn’t think he’d come back from this job. A minuscule amount of jobs had ever convinced Dante of the possibility that he’d die, every poor soul that had come to him requesting he take up arms against a nigh impossible to kill demon—a lord, a king, even gods—had been taken aback by how easily he’d handled the situation. Dante, on the other hand, always wished for a bigger challenge. He’d kill every demon he came across, sure, that’s how one protected humanity. But what he would have destroyed for a bit more thrill? Better yet what wouldn’t he have destroyed? 

“I can’t accept this, Dante.” 

“Sure you can, I just need you to watch it until I come back.”

_ ‘If you come back at all,’  _ Morrison thought sourly. “What makes you think I can do that?” 

Dante sighed. He mosied over to the broker and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

“Morrison, my dearest friend,” Dante said softly. “I  _ know  _ you’ll keep this safe because those  _ crazy bitches- _ ” Lady and Trish, though no one had to say it aloud to know. “-are like bloodhounds. The second they realize I might not return for this place is the second they’ll try to hunt this thing down and claim it for themselves. You’re the only one I’d willingly leave this with. Besides, if I were to give it to  _ that guy- _ ” Dante jammed a finger at Phineas, who had been watching all of this with mild interest. “He’d sell it to the highest bidder.” 

Phineas barked out a sharp laugh. 

“While it’s true you can’t trust me with that damned thing,” Phineas replied, his statement staying true though not for the reason Dante thought. He preferred a little bit of coin whenever he did a favor for anyone, nothing came free. “I’m not so much of an ass. I’d like to see you and  _ Devil May Cry  _ continue upholding your glory.” 

“Well, if that isn’t the sweetest damn thing I’ve ever heard from you,” Dante said. He kind of meant it, awkwardly. Really, the two of them couldn’t pay each other a single compliment without it having ties to sarcasm or discomfort. “Have anything else to say before I head out?” 

The tumultuous whirring of a helicopter sounded off outside and it made Dante wonder what V had in store for him and his business partners. 

“That’s about all the sentimentality you’ll get from me.” Phineas leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms while his cane balanced on the floor like gravity and balance had no reign over its stance. He never stopped being weird. “Might change my mind if you’ve got something nice to say in response.” 

“ _ Might, _ ” Dante scoffed. “Yeah, right. That’s about all I’ve got for you.” 

He headed for the door, gesturing to Morrison to follow. He spared his office space one last stare, taking in its details with glittery, misty eyes. If he never made it back, he sure as hell was gonna miss this place. Too many memories, both good and bad, had been embedded into the floorboards and walls, blood, sweat, and tears had been shared between him and the shattered remains of his family, banter and sarcasm and wits thrown about, meaningless contests, shitty karaoke, round after round of gambling through darts or billiards. Nights Dante had spent grieving and miserable, drinking his heart out, smashing mirrors and glass, cutting his knuckles open, sobbing until his throat was raw, and he ached with the family missing from his life.  _ Devil May Cry  _ had seen the best and worst of him. 

Taking a deep breath, he made eye contact with Phineas and saluted. 

“Adios!” He shouted, dipping outside. Phineas watched and waited, lingering, absorbing what he could of this place. He hoped he wouldn’t have to abandon it to another tragedy. 

“And don’t drink my alcohol!” 

Phineas groaned and tilted his head back. “I don’t want your damn alcohol, you clod.” 

* * *

_ ‘Is it really you?’  _ Dante wondered, his gaze slowly observing the pool of blood soaking at Urizen’s feet. Obscured by mounds of twisting, writhing roots to mask and armor him, envy green eyes peering down disdainfully at his challenger. Dante flexed his fingers and met the gaze without fear, their shared word scorching the tip of his tongue. 

“Jackpot.” 

Vergil shifted, laggardly focusing more of his attention onto the brother before him as a wave of blood siphoned into his core. 

“Dante…” 


	7. A Toast to Liquid Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return to Devil May Cry is quiet and celebrated with a pair of clinking glasses.

Dante flopped onto the couch with all the energy of a man run down from a vacation to hell, coming off the high of everything being  _ right  _ for the first time in decades but too tired to really do much celebrating. As soon as he’d dragged his brother back through the doors of  _ Devil May Cry,  _ Vergil had seen fit to commandeer Dante’s bathroom and hog it for the sake of scouring off the deeply ingrained grime and imprint of the Underworld. Dante would blame him except… no, he totally blamed Vergil and he planned on giving him a lot of hell when he finally vacated the shower. Dammit, he’d like some hot water for himself too. 

Though no one could see him, he rolled his eyes and grinned and fought the urge to squirm around excitedly like a teenage girl who’d just been told the greatest news of her life. He didn’t need today to get any more awkward, filled with life’s greatest joys though it had been—Vergil’s first pizza in over twenty years, witty ripostes, and the very empty threat that if they returned to Dante’s office without power or running water then Vergil would skewer him on the spot. Fortunately, it hadn’t been, but Dante now debated whether that was a good thing. Interesting couldn’t have been strong enough to describe how surreal it felt to have his brother around again. Twenty years of mourning he’d suffered, now things didn’t have to be so bleak and he had a twin support pillar to smack him around and of course, Dante would return the favor when Vergil hit a low point too. 

Working up the energy to do something productive, a hilarious rarity that, Dante swung his legs off the couch and stood again, anticipating the arrival of his favorite bastard. It didn’t take long for Phineas to reveal himself and insult him. 

“Yes, thank you, Phineas,” Dante groused. He’d already raided the alcohol cabinet again as if he’d ever stop doing such a thing after every mission. Deeply entrenched habit at this point, it’d be a waste to not commemorate their return at all. “I’m aware I smell. I’ll get in the shower eventually.” 

As they fell into a rhythm of sallies and exchanged jokes, Dante swept around the shop, half of his movements wasted on grand gestures and distractions as he made the jukebox play a slow rock song with heavy bass and drums and clattered around the mini bar in the corner, no deliberation or certainty. He fished out a pair of glasses and poured savory vodka on the rocks. He swung back a large gulp of his then carelessly extended the other one to Phineas, swirling it around enticingly. Phineas measured him with a skeptical look, unable to believe what his sight told his mind. 

“Dante, in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never once offered me a drink.” 

Dante wore the smuggest expression in all creation and if Phineas hadn’t been so fatigued from being nearly immortal, he might have bonked him with his cane. 

“Are you going to take it?” 

Phineas faked a grimace that turned into a smirk and cautiously handled the drink. Dante didn’t say anything as it went down and pointedly ignored the single cough that  _ didn’t  _ come from him. Vodka remained as close to gasoline as anyone would get but hey, he needed the strong, gripping shock to remind him that everything was real and Vergil seemed unlikely to drink on the first night. Not anything like pure ethanol anyway. 

Dante lifted his glass in Phineas’s direction, a bit late on the uptake, he realized but it didn’t matter. The two of them clinked the rims of the glasses together, a simple, ariose note ringing out to accompany the music and the conversation and the muffled showering from above indicating a piece of life glued back together. Dante toasted and drank. He drank to happy endings and family, to hot showers and a roof to stay under, to cherished friends, to playful glares and Vergil’s storm grey eyes, lightning swordsmanship, and unwieldy love, and to the undoubtedly oncoming chaos that would be Nero and Patty and Lady and Trish finding them committing to basically nothing. 


End file.
